


Ripples

by singedbylife



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because I can, Comfort, F/M, HEA, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 13:00:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singedbylife/pseuds/singedbylife
Summary: Sansa finds Theon in the Godswood after the Long Night.





	Ripples

She kneels on the snowy ground grasping at his hands, a pool of his blood staining her dress.

His once expressive eyes stare blindly into nothing and thick dark blood runs from his lips and down his chin and into his ear and hair and onto the ground. He doesn’t look peaceful but alone and lost. He’s been speared in his guts and he’s died choking on his own blood. She pulls off his gloves, feeling for a pulse, squeezes his hands in desperation, presses them against her lips, her face, her eyes, as if he would be able to feel it. As if he would be able to smooth away her sorrow and pain. As if her tears on his skin would make him come back to life. 

She knew he was dead before coming out here. She knew it. And yet, she had hoped that it was just some terrible mistake. That he was still alive. That they had overlooked a faint heartbeat, or the shallowest of breaths. 

Arya had brought back Bran from the Godswood. She had seen the two of them enter through the gates and into the courtyard and excitedly, she had run over to her siblings and hugged them both fiercely. 

“You’re alive! You’re alive and they are all gone. We’ve won!” she had exclaimed. 

“We won. Arya killed the night king,” Bran stated, and Sansa had raised her eyebrows in surprise and given her little sister a proud and pointed look and Arya had almost but not quite blushed seeing the joy and obvious respect in Sansa’s eyes. 

“And… No, let’s start with the beginning. What happened in the Godswood,” Sansa continues, “Did the Night King enter it? Did he come anywhere near you?” 

“He found me as expected,” Bran replies. “But long before that, he sent in scores of wights, and they were attacking the men. After a while, only Theon was still standing. He had run out of arrows and he was fighting the wights all by himself using a spear.”

“And?” she says.

“In the end, he was surrounded by a ring of slain enemies, and not a single one had been allowed anywhere near me. Then the Night King entered the Godswood.”

An icy hand grabs at her heart and lungs and squeezes. 

“And?” she asks breathlessly. 

“I knew Arya was on her way, so I told Theon that he was a good man. And I thanked him,” Bran says in his monotone emotionless voice.

_“And?”_ There is a sharpness to her voice. A desperate edge. She still doesn’t seem to be able to breathe.

“Theon charged the Night King and lost. He was killed by the Night King, speared with his own spear.“

She closes her eyes. But she doesn’t make a sound. Her lungs are useless, and her voice has abandoned her. The whole worlds seem to have gone white. 

_“He charged the Night King.” _

_“He was fighting the wights all by himself.” _

_“He was killed by the Night King, speared with his own spear.” _

She feels hot tears trickle down her cheeks. Then a desperate thought suddenly shoots through her brain, and frees her lungs and her heart and she hears herself asking, “but are you absolutely sure, he’s d…” 

“I saw him,“ Arya interrupts her. “Theon’s dead, Sansa. I’m sorry.” 

Sansa doesn’t answer. She can hardly see anything from the tears that are blinding her eyesight. She turns away from them and walks past them. She walks out through the gates of Winterfell and starts running towards the Godswood. Her tears keep flowing but she needs to find him. She needs to see him. Maybe they are wrong, and he is still alive and if he is, he needs help right away. 

But Arya is right. He is dead and there is nothing she can do but cry and hold him close to her. The broken spear lies next to him. She doesn’t know if he has managed to pull it out himself or if Arya did it before leaving the Godswood. 

She rubs helplessly at the dark blood on his face. The sight of it appals her. Nothing should ever mar Theon or make him seem frail and she can’t stand to look at it. It’s as if it’s mocking him and mocking her as well. She grabs some snow and tries to wash it off his face and out of his hair but all this does is make the blood turn to fluid and become as fresh again instead of cold and dried up and the air suddenly smells of his blood, and her hands are covered in it, and she sobs helplessly. She slides one arm under his head and pulls him closer, his face resting against her chest, his upper body splayed limply across her lap. She uses her dress as a towel and wipes off most of the blood from her hands before she manages to gently close his eyes. As the sea green colors disappear from her sight forever, she sobs again. 

She remains like this, bent over Theon, holding him tight, her chin resting softly against his hair. The cold begins to seep into her legs and arms, but she can’t bring herself to let go of him or to change their position. All she can manage is rock back and forth and cry.

“Sansa,” a light but firm touch to her shoulders. 

She knows her sister’s voice and she raises her eyes to look up at Arya. She is still cradling Theon in her arms and she reflexively strengthens her hold on him and sits back. Behind Arya, two men stand forlornly, one of them is carrying a rolled-up stretcher. 

“Sansa,” Arya’s voice is strangely gentle. 

“Let’s get him back to the castle. Let’s get him back home where we can clean him up and dress him and show him the last honor somewhere where it’s nice and warm. He shouldn’t stay out here in the cold and neither should you.” 

Moments pass before she blinks and then she carefully lowers him to the ground. She is aware of the fact that her dress and her hands are covered in his blood as she slowly gets back on her feet. But she nods and watches as they ever so gently lift his lifeless body onto the stretcher. She and Arya walk slowly behind them as Theon Greyjoy is carried back to Winterfell in a silent procession. 

Once inside, he’s carried to an empty chamber. A maid is already covering the bed with clean sheets of linens. Arya must have told her to prepare the room. Then he is lifted up from the floor, one man holding him under his arms and one man carrying his feet. Sansa winces as she sees how his head lolls back and his long neck is exposed as the men shift him around between them and place him on the bed. The men bow and leave, and Arya and Sansa stand beside the bed, looking down at the body. Sansa steps forward and rearranges his head so that he looks more comfortable. More natural. She cups his face in her hand and runs her thumb over his sharp cheekbone. She is shaking. 

“Come, let’s get you washed up and dressed in some dry clothes. I’ll get some water and towels, and find some clean clothes for him.”

“He needs to wear his armor.” Her voice comes out dry and hoarse. “He died a Greyjoy. He should be buried as one.” 

“He died a hero,” Arya says. “What he wears won’t change that, but I will go find his things and make sure, he’s dressed the way you like. We’ll clean his armor too.”

She bathes and dresses herself as if in a daze. When she returns to the chamber, Arya is already there, and there are several buckets with warm water, a number of bowls, sweet-smelling oils, and lots of towels, as well as a clean set of ironborn clothes identical to those Theon is wearing now. 

“Do you want me to do it,” Arya offers. “When I was in Braavos, I worked at the House of Black and White. I cleaned the dead. Lots of them. I’m used to it. I can call for you once I’m done.”

“No! No, I want to do it. I need to do it.” Her voice trails off. “I want to do it by myself,” she says and straightens her back and shoulders. 

“A dead body weighs more than you expect,” Arya says matter-of-factly. “It’s not easy to handle alone.”

A tear slips down Sansa’s cheek. She rubs it away. “I don’t want it to be easy,” she whispers. 

Arya nods. “I will go tell Jon. Brienne’s alive too.” 

_Jon. Brienne. Tyrion. _She had all but forgotten them, but she can’t find it in herself to feel ashamed. She can’t find it in herself to feel happy either.

“Please tell him, tell him I’m that I’m glad he survived. And that I will join the rest of you later.”

Arya closes the door behind her and leaves Sansa alone with Theon. 

She approaches the bed and kneels on a low padded stool which Arya must have asked for to be placed there. She studies Theon’s profile. He is dirty and bloody and pale, but his profile is beautiful. 

She never thought of him as beautiful or even handsome before. But when she saw him, back at Winterfell wearing his ironborn armor and a long flowing sleeveless vest, he was looking every bit the man he was always meant to be. And he was beautiful. A beautiful, brave, and gentle, and strong man. 

She reaches out and smoothes back his hair from his forehead. It’s stiff from filth and gore as well as his own blood and sweat. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.” She takes a deep breath and rises. Slowly, she begins to free him of his armor. It’s been pierced by the Night King but is otherwise intact. First, she undoes the belt around his waist and then she unties the leather laces on the shoulder straps. It feels wrong to untie knots that Theon himself has so carefully tied only hours ago. She wishes that she had been the one, tying them for him, helping Theon get ready for the upcoming battle. She wishes she had spent much more time with him while she still had the chance. 

Carefully she places the bloodstained pieces on the floor. His armor is much lighter than what a Northman usually wears because the ironborn are meant to fight their battles out at sea, and not during close combat. They must be able to move around easily onboard their ships, and to climb dangling rope ladders unhindered. And should they fall into the water, their armor must be light enough that they are able to swim in it or even stay afloat if only briefly. Unlike Northmen’s heavy armor, an ironborn’s armor is quite easy to put on and remove again. An ironborn doesn’t need help from servants preparing for a battle, not the way a Northman does. 

There is a Kraken carved into the leather on the breastplate. Some of the strings in the carving have been torn during the battle. She knows it was intact only a few hours ago. Her lips quiver as she runs her finger along the etches. Despite the crudeness of the carving, Theon’s ironborn armor is the most beautiful armor she knows. It makes him look like one of those dreamy knights she used to fantasize about as a young girl. 

If Theon had worn Northern armor out in the Godswood, the spear might not have penetrated him, she thinks. But she knows that even if she had thought about it, thought about how a northern armor was stronger than the ironborns’, it would have been wrong to suggest that he wear Stark armor for this battle. He more than anyone needed to be allowed to be who he was right here within the gates of Winterfell; Theon Greyjoy. A prince of the Iron Islands, fighting with and leading ironborn who had all volunteered to leave the safety of their ships and follow him into the Great War. Into death. 

Arya has left a pair of scissors and Sansa cuts away the shirt he is wearing. The fabric is stuck in the edges of the deep stomach wound and since she doesn’t want to hurt his body any more than it has already been hurt and even though she knows it does not matter because he cannot feel anything anymore, she carefully wets the corners around the wound until the fabric gently lets go of his mangled skin. Once she has cut away the sleeves as well, she gently tugs the shirt out from under his body and places it on the floor next to the armor. 

She returns to stand beside him at the bed. The sight of his bare upper body shocks her and she keeps staring at it until it becomes too much. She sits back down on the low stool and rests her head against the mattress, gasping for breath. Ramsay has vandalized Theon’s body and she should have known. Some part of her did of course, but to see it... Theon’s chest and arms are covered in scars from multiple flayings, and cuts and burn marks. Strips of skin have been pulled off his lower stomach too. There are large Xs branded into his shoulders and whip marks snake around his torso from behind his back. She cries at his missing nipple. She never truly understood just how badly Ramsay had hurt Theon except from his missing finger but now it’s all there, a map laid out before her showing horrible pain, abuse, and mutilation. She wishes she knew so she could tell him that she never meant what she had said to him that day when he was still Reek. She wishes she knew because she would have hurt Ramsay even more. She wishes she knew and that he was alive so she could have been given a chance to one day kiss all the hurt away. She straightens and places her hand on his chest. She whispers his name as she glides her fingers over the scars and runs her fingers through his sparse and soft golden chest hairs. 

Then she rises again, kisses his forehead and gently begins to wash his face and hair using water and soap and scented oils. She cleanses the blood from his ear. 

The first reddened towel lands in an empty basket. There will be many more.

Once his face is washed, she continues with his upper body. There isn’t much blood to be seen apart from the terrible hole in his stomach but as the fluids within him aren’t flowing anymore it’s less messy than she would have expected. 

There is a wad of bandage next to the bath oils and she sends Arya a grateful thought. While it’s not easy at all, she manages to wrap it around his waist, hiding the wound from anyone’s sight and making it look like it is merely an injury that is being treated and taken well care of. 

Finally, she removes his boots and his socks and cuts away his bloodied trousers. There are no words to describe her anguish at the sight, nor her hatred for Ramsay, but she cleans him with love and respect. All of Theon’s body hair is fine and golden and where his skin isn’t lacerated in scars, it’s silken and soft. Despite his mutilations, his naked body is beautiful. 

Next comes getting him into his clean set of clothes. This is heavy and arduous work, but in the end, Theon lies fully dressed but for his armor. His hair has been combed and is drying up in wavy curls, and he looks peaceful. Tended to and cared for. 

She reaches out and takes his hand in hers. It’s cold and stiff by now but it’s still him. Her tears have dried out, but she knows they will return. 

A knock on the door sounds, and Arya enters. “He looks good,” she says in earnest after scrutinizing Sansa’s work. “I’ll go tell the maids to come fetch the water and the towels. I’ll be back with something for his armor. You did good, Sansa.”

Sansa nods thankfully. When Arya returns, they quietly work side by side, doing what they can to make Theon’s armor look like it did when he had been sitting across from her on the last night of his life, eating soup and looking like the kindest knight, she could ever imagine. She remembers how her heart had been thumping oddly in her chest whenever their eyes would meet and how she had been filled with an all-consuming sense of frightened joy and hope.

_Stupid._ Stupid girl. Dreaming of things, she could never have. And even worse, stupid for not telling Theon anything about what he meant to her while she still had the chance. 

“He knew,” Arya says as if she can read her mind. “He knew you cared for him. He cared for you too or he wouldn’t have come back.” 

_I loved him_, she thinks but only gives Arya a small, tight smile in reply.

\+ + + 

She stands before him as he rests on the pyre. Now that the time has come to see him one final time, she cries again. She wishes he knew that he was just as good as any of them. That he was one of them. How much he meant to her. But she will never get to tell him this and so she simply does what she can do which is to gift him with a direwolf pin. With shaking hands, she pulls the pin out from her dress and carefully manages to insert it between two intact strings on the carved Kraken adorning his breastplate. A Greyjoy and a Stark, body, and soul. 

She has to ball her fists to keep from dragging him off of the pyre and back inside. Or to throw herself over his body, clinging to it like possessed but she is Sansa Stark and while she cannot stop crying, she can keep it together. Out of respect for him, for her House and for all the other mourners who have lost loved ones too. 

She turns away from him. She is the last one still standing by the pyres paying their last respects and she squares her shoulders and walks back to the others. 

She lights Theon’s pyre herself and to her relief, the men who have stacked and built the pyres have done well as large flames instantly spring up and create a fiery curtain which hides what damage the flames do to Theon’s body. The air is filled with black, thick smoke and the gods have willed it so that the billowing smoke blow upwards and away from Winterfell. She hopes some of him reaches the sea.

\+ + +

It’s been weeks since the pyres burned down to the ground. Arya, Jon, and Daenerys have left. Jaime Lannister and Tyrion too. Soon they will all go to war in King’s Landing on behalf of the Dragon queen. 

Sansa has been coping but she often finds herself lingering in the Godswood. The snow has begun to thaw during daytime and there are no traces of the bloodshed that took place in this sacred place. It’s a quiet and peaceful area that calms her and grounds her. 

Bran is often out here as well, and this is also the case this afternoon. They nod at each other. Sansa looks away for a bit enjoying the silence and the scenery. She didn’t know he was here when she came, but now that he is… she has been thinking about this for days. She turns to him.

“Bran, I need to talk with you.”

“Yes,” Bran says. 

“You said you told Theon that he was a good man.”

“I did.”

“But what did _he_ say that night? Was he afraid?” Her voice hitches. 

“He was determined to protect me. I don’t think he feared for his own life. He was where he was supposed to be. If anything, he was afraid to fail me. To fail us.”

That thought saddens her because his very presence at Winterfell had shown how much he did _not_ fail them, but she presses on. “But did you talk with him before… before the wights came?”

Bran looks at her with his dark unreadable gaze. Then he leans back a little in his seat, and his eyes turn white.

“Bran?”

Long moments later, Bran’s eyes are back to normal. “Theon said exactly this, _“They lit the trench…”_ and then he turned around and approached me and said _“Bran, I just want you to know… I wish… the things I did…”_ and I interrupted him and told him, “Everything you did brought you where you are now. Where you belong. Home.” 

She cocks her head. “You seem to remember it word for word?”

“I recite exactly what was being said because I went back to that moment and heard it all again. I can access everything in the past. It is as if I am right there standing next to people, observing them, listening to them.”

_To see Theon again!_ It would break her heart but at the same time, there is nothing she wants more. “Can you… can I see it too? The past?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you take me into your mind and show me what it is you see? In the past?”

For the first time since Bran has returned to Winterfell, he looks uncertain. Human. “I don’t know. No one has ever tried it before. I don’t think it’s possible. Or wise.”

“But will you try? For me?”

“Theon wanted to die that night. He is dead and seeing him again in the past will not bring him back.”

“You seem certain he had a death wish.”

“I am.”

“But why? Didn’t he have anything left to live for?”

“Ramsay Bolton destroyed him. You know that.”

“Ramsay Bolton killed people and hurt people, that much is true. You know exactly what he did to me, so I don’t have to remind you. But Ramsay didn’t manage to destroy me. And he didn’t manage to destroy Theon either. He might have tried to, but Theon was far stronger than what Ramsay wanted to make of him.”

She folds her hands, thinking back. Then she continues, “After we escaped Ramsay, I think Theon was finally free to become who and what he was always meant to be. Good and - and kind, and wise. He had survived all of this, all of these horrors. He had so much to live for. He deserved it. To live.” 

Those last words come out a whisper.

“Sansa, I have seen some of what Theon went through. I can’t read people’s minds, but he had lost all hope when it came to himself. All that mattered to him was to make sure we survived. I didn’t tell him to charge the Night King. That was his choice alone. But I did expect him to do it. And because he did what he did, the Night King didn’t reach me before Arya came. As I had also expected. I knew she was coming.”

“Did you tell him that you could see Arya was on her way?”

Bran blinks. “No.”

“Why?”

“I am the Three-Eyed Raven, Sansa. The memory of mankind. I needed the Night King to be distracted in order for me to survive. In order for Arya to have a chance at killing him.”

“So you sacrificed Theon for your sake?”

“For the memory of mankind. Some sacrifices are necessary for the greater good. But I didn’t tell him to run towards the Night King.”

“No, but you expected it, as you said."

She shakes her head. "I don’t blame you," she says, "you mustn't misunderstand me. I do understand why you did what you did. The entire situation must have been harrowing. I saw the number of dead wights around this tree. You were both entirely surrounded and the Night King had arrived. And Theon... I suppose he felt that he had no other choice but to attempt a head-on one-man attack. It was his last chance, and he took it.”

__

“Theon wanted to die,” Bran says calmly. “Dying was a kindness to him.”

“So you say but if he had known Arya was on her way, do you think he would have chosen to run to his death – instead of remaining by your side, biding his time?”

“I do. He wanted to die and with my final words to him he was free to do so.” 

“Show me that you’re right. That he had given up all hope and wanted nothing else but to die. That he could see no future.”

Bran doesn’t reply for several minutes.

“I don’t see any purpose in doing so. And I don’t know that I can. As I said, no one has ever tried it before.” She doesn’t say more to him but looks at the sunshine filtering through the sparse weirwood leaves. Theon deserved a future. Why didn’t he understand that? Why would he run to his death?

As if in an afterthought, Bran suddenly says, “But just because nobody has ever tried it before doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be done. For you, because you are my sister and because I respect you, I will try. But there is one thing that you must accept and promise.”

“Yes?”

“If I do take you back in time, you must not say a word, nor move a muscle. You can only stand and observe and let happen what happens must. Do you understand?”

Her heart is hammering in her chest. “I do. I promise.”

“You will not be able to make any changes, Sansa. The past is in the past. If you try to talk to the people you see, you will not be able to change anything. They won’t hear you. But even so, actions like that will create strong ripples in time and those ripples might ruin your mind. Perhaps even kill you. Or others.” 

Sansa nods. “Do you still want to try this?”

“Yes.”

“I will take you back to when Theon returned to Pyke the first time. To when he chose the path that led to his destruction. I will show you glimpses to make you understand why he couldn’t see any hope for him.”

She frowns but suddenly her eyesight is blacked out and a force larger than life enters her mind. She feels a heavy pull and a sense of incredible speed hurling her backwards. 

Inside her mind, Bran’s voice rings. _*Remember what I told you. You can only observe. It will be as if you are there but you are not, do you understand?*_

_*Yes*_

And so, she finds herself standing at the harbor as a younger Theon arrives. He looks happy and excited and full of himself. He hasn’t seen his family since her father took him on King Robert’s orders and Sansa finds herself searching for the welcoming party but there are no one there. 

Her heart sinks and she sees how Theon’s does as well. This Theon is hardly recognizable compared to the man he became but there is a vulnerability to him that she never noticed when they were young. This Theon is seemingly cocksure and full of himself, but he yearns for affection. And who wouldn’t have expected to be greeted warmly by their relatives after having been taken away from them for nearly a decade? What kind of family wouldn’t eagerly have welcomed back their only living son?

She watches as he is scorned by his father and his sister alike. Watches as he breaks down and shouts truths at his father and sees how his father hits him for a reply. She watches him inside his own room. Watches as he finds a torn old kraken doll, hidden beneath a floor plank and hears him mumble “Mother,” as he briefly presses it to his cheek before carefully and quickly restoring it to its secret hiding spot.

She watches as he sits down at a table in a darkened chamber. His eyes are red, and he curses angrily at himself. She understands him now. Where does Theon fit? 

She remembers overhearing her mother and her father talking about him once. They didn’t know she could hear them. How he was a good lad, or so her father had said before he had continued _“but he is still a Greyjoy and it shows. But I won’t order Theon to stay inside the castle at night, Catelyn. He may be our hostage, but he’s also my ward. He is a young man and his, um, lustful actions don’t shame our House. Besides, I trust him enough to always come back from his visits to Wintertown.”_ Her mother’s response had been a curt, _“You should never trust a Greyjoy!”_

It was an exchange she had filed away with a shrug because who cared what Theon did back then but seeing him struggle now, she realizes that he must have overheard exchanges like that as well. “Never trust a Greyjoy.” He must have heard sayings like that not only from her parents, but from servants and small folk as well. In her heart, she knows that he was never truly considered one of them and now she knows that he was not considered a Greyjoy either. No one really seems to trust Theon. Or to want him. 

Hovering over his shoulder, she sees him write a warning letter to Robb telling him about his father’s plans, only to ultimately burn it in the end. Silent tears run down her cheeks. She wants to touch him, shake him or hug him, she is not sure, but she remembers Bran’s warning. Doing so will not change the past but it may kill her or cause her to go mad.

She sees Theon being baptized in the name of the Drowned God. Sees tears that the sea water tries to hide. 

And then she is swooped away and hurled back into the Godswood. She has a blinding headache and her eyes itch. Bran seems unaffected.

“Theon’s family didn’t love him,” he says. “His mother was the only one he knew who had cared for him, and she had passed away years earlier. And yet, he chose them over us. He chose to betray us. That’s why he could never forgive himself. That’s why he wanted to die and why he felt he deserved what Ramsay Bolton did to him.”

She looks at Bran. She has no doubt that Balon Greyjoy was a terrible father and from what Bran has let her see, Theon’s sister couldn’t care less about her brother. 

But nevertheless, Theon chose to go back to the Iron Islands after their escape. “Home,” he had called it. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. But his sister must have welcomed him back because the two of them had sailed together to Meereen, had they not? Whatever their feelings might have been, they had obviously changed once he returned to Pyke a second time. He had saved his sister too, she remembers. Of course. 

She has no doubt that Bran is right when he says that Theon regretted his choice. Choosing to betray Robb and take Winterfell on behalf of his blood family. But…

She is proud of her family. She loved her parents and she is proud to be a Stark. She believes that House Stark is better than most, she won’t deny it. But if all these years have taught her anything it is that nothing is merely black or white. People, good people, make poor decisions. 

But she doesn’t say any of this to Bran because she realizes that while Bran might be the Three-Eyed Raven, he is also just a young man harboring complicated feelings towards Theon. Feelings that may not be entirely neutral at all. The thought scares her slightly. A Three-Eyed Raven who has a personal agenda is a dangerously powerful force. She wants to make certain that Bran really meant it when he told Theon that he was a good man. She doesn’t want the last words Theon ever heard to be a convenient lie said to manipulate him into rushing towards his own death. She wants to make sure that Bran understands what kind of person Theon had become. 

“Will you take me back to when Theon and I ran from Ramsay’s men?”

Bran’s eyes are unreadable as ever. “No.” 

“Why not?”

“I don’t think it matters.” 

“It does to me. He _saved_ me. And he held me, trying to keep me warm. To comfort me. And yet, when the dogs were nearby, he left me to try and lure them away. As living bait. If Brienne hadn’t shown up, he would have been taken back to Ramsay and hurt all over. For me. And later, he told me he was sorry about all that he had done. Betraying Robb, executing Ser Rodrick. And most of all, I think he was sorry for murdering two little boys in your place.“

“He didn’t murder them,” Bran says.

“I’m sorry?”

“He didn’t murder the farm boys. Not in person. But he did allow it to happen. I saw him behead Ser Rodrick though. Butcher him more like. I don’t have to go back to that day either because I remember it all vividly. It was horrible. I hated him then.”

If Bran harbored negative feelings towards Theon, she understands why. He was only a little boy when this earlier version of Theon showed up and took Winterfell. Watching trusted old Ser Rodrick being beheaded by Theon must have shaken Bran the boy to his core. But would it cause Bran the Three-Eyed Raven to care nothing at all for Theon of later years? Would he only see Theon as a disposable pawn? Bran claims he is not that boy anymore but sometimes, there are glimpses of a human within him. Of her brother. Had Bran as he is now ever found it in himself to forgive Theon? 

“He told me he could never make amends for what he did to us. That he didn’t want to be forgiven,” she says.

“The fact that Theon didn’t want forgiveness shows that he didn’t think he deserved to live. But for what it’s worth I think he felt accomplished when he ran to his death,” Bran says.

She does not say anything to that. Because it is possible that Bran is right, and that Theon felt like his life had a purpose in those final moments. And yet, he had ended up lying on the ground, mortally wounded and probably thinking that he had failed them yet again. That everything he had ever done, even dying had been useless. She doubts that his last thoughts had been about redemption or about feeling accomplished at all because she remembers the twisted position he was in when she had found him and the expression on his face. She shudders.

She needs to know if Theon witnessed Arya killing the Night King. If he did then he would have died knowing that they won because of him. That his sacrifice did make a difference. Then perhaps she too will be able to accept his death.

“I hope you are right,” she says. “But… Please take me back to that last night. Let me see him again one last time. Until the end.”

“It will not bring you joy,” he says.

“No. But perhaps it will bring me peace.”

And then she is back. People all around her are bustling about, getting ready. She sees Theon put on his armor. His hands are sure as they tie the knots on his armor. 

She watches as the two of them meet in the courtyard. As she asks him to join her for a meal outside. He nods at her and together they stand in wait at the soup line. He is standing behind her and she almost blushes at seeing how his face is full of longing as he stands there, looking at her hair, a slight tilt to his head. She had been oblivious to most of the looks on his face that night. He studies her far more times than she had known at the time. Each time she looks away or bends her head to have yet another spoonful of soup, there it is: Theon’s wistful gaze on her. She can’t help the sound of frustration that slips past her lips, and she is shocked to see Theon cock his head in her present being’s direction. He heard me, she realizes and her heart jumps crazily in her chest. She glances in Bran’s direction, but he seems not to have noticed. 

And then they are inside the Godswood on the Long Night. Theon is calmly instructing his men, and her heart swells in pride. He is a good leader.

As the wights swarm in, she clutches at her throat to keep from screaming out in abject horror. Man after man after woman, the young Alyss Karstark is there too, are killed around Theon who shoots arrow after arrow at an impossible speed and precision. He is amazing. And much too quickly, he is the only one still alive, just like Bran had told her he was. 

She watches in terror as Theon discovers that he has used up all of his arrows. At this time, Jon and Daenerys and their dragons were meant to have arrived to help him defend Bran, but she can hear the dragons fighting far away. She knows now, of course, that none of their plans worked out and her heart aches for Theon. 

He is all alone and Bran of the past merely sits in his wheelchair, eyes milky white. A wight knocks Theon over and she knows it’s not the Night King or she wouldn’t have been able to watch it as he pulls himself out of reach, scrambling on the ground, and she secretly cheers as he gets hold of an abandoned spear and runs it through the wight just in time and kills it, even as he is still lying on the ground. He gets back up on his feet and kills wight after wight with that spear. She has never seen anything like it. He fights with all that he’s got, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins. He is so exhausted and he’s barely able to stand but he never stops. All of the wights attacking them end up dead on the ground. 

Then an eerie silence creeps in and settles over the Godswood and she looks around, as Theon straightens his back and does the same. For some reason, all of the remaining wights have stopped moving and are now standing in a circle surrounding the weirwood and the only two human survivors. 

The Night King has arrived.

Bran of the past wakes up. “Theon,” he calls. Theon turns. His eyes are full of tears. 

“You’re a good man.” A pause. “Thank you.”

A tear runs down Theon’s cheek and she knows that this is what she wanted to see. His death and whether it made sense. Whether he witnessed Arya killing the Night King or not. But she can’t. Instead, she rushes towards him and says in a low and urgent voice that only he can hear, _“Help is on the way! Stay back for me Theon, please. Stay here.”_

_*WHAT HAVE YOU DONE*_ Bran’s voice roars inside her mind, and then she is pushed back violently. An incredible and outraged force enters her and threatens to kill her. Her whole world spins and whirls, and it feels as if her eyes explode, her head explodes, she explodes. The pain is excruciating, and it is everywhere, and she screams. 

Afterwards, nothing.

\+ + +

When Sansa wakes up, it is slow and difficult. Everything hurts. Her eyes burn and her head throbs. Gingerly she tries to open her eyes and look around, but she isn’t sure she is doing it right because she can’t see anything. Her thoughts seem foggy. Her fingers feel clumsy. 

She blinks a few more times and is gradually able to make out faint differences in the light within the darkness. It’s nighttime she realizes. And she is outside still. She can just barely make out the grey white patches where snow and ice clings to the ground even as Winter is leaving. She sees her icy breath curl upwards. She is so cold. She rolls over to lie on her side, panting and gasping, until she is finally able to push herself up on her hands and knees. She doesn’t have enough strength in her to get up from the ground and she rests her forehead against the weirwood tree. She is still in the Godswood. 

“Bran,” she croaks but there is no answer. She lifts her head, her hair is wet and clinging to her face, and strands of it are stuck in the weirwood tree. She winches as she feels some of it being pulled out and left inside the weirwood when she moves her head further up. 

The sun has long set, and she is all alone. And she can barely feel her toes or fingers from the cold. 

“Bran,” this time she calls his name out louder. “Bran!” But there is no one there. 

“Oh, gods, no. No, oh gods, Bran, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.” 

She broke her promise to her brother and now he is gone. She spoke to Theon of the past and, somehow, she must have changed the timeline and now she has lost not only Theon, but her brother too. 

She sobs helplessly and starts clawing at the weirwood tree with her bare stiff fingers as if the tree could bring back her brother or let her back into the past to undo it. “Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.”

She slides down the tree and ends up in a broken heap at the bottom of the tree, nestled bonelessly against the huge roots. She is so cold and so tired. She knows what falling asleep outside during nighttime will do to her. But she doesn’t deserve to live anyway and so she closes her eyes and drifts away. 

She doesn’t hear the person approaching her. 

“Sansa. Are you alright?”

She opens her eyes and stares wildly out into the darkness, but her eyesight is immediately blinded by the searing light from a lantern. She can see nothing, just spots of dancing flames and she tries to answer but only manages a croak. Her blood rushes loudly in her veins, and all sounds seem distorted. 

The lantern is quickly placed on the ground and then strong arms surround her, and they guide her gently up into an upright position. The hold on her tightens as a voice says, “What happened? Are you alright? Talk to me, please Sansa.” She feels the firm hold shortly losen up and then a blanket is being wrapped around her shoulders. Then the hold on her resumes.

She gasps as her eyesight returns to her. She stares at the dark grey clothes. At the quilted patterns on his warm shirt. At the little round metal studs that form simple lines along the edges. At the leather strings laced down the middle. She turns her head slightly and looks at the leather gloved hand that holds onto her shoulder. Then she lifts her head and looks directly into Theon Greyjoy’s sea green eyes. 

“Theon,” she gasps. “Theon.” 

“I’m here. Are you hurt?” He looks so worried. And so alive, oh gods, so alive!

“No,” she replies in what is both a laugh and a sob. She is losing it. Bran was telling her the truth and her words to Theon’s past self, created ripples that have made her go mad. Only, she doesn’t really care if she is insane right now.

“Thank the gods,” he says. “Let’s get you back inside. You’re freezing to death out here. Why were you out here at this hour all by yourself? How long have you been sitting here?”

She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what hour it is nor what date it is. Or if any of this is real. But she does know one thing. “I was thinking of you,” she says. Tears run down her cheeks.

He lifts his eyebrows in surprise before he looks away. “Oh,” he says. She realizes that his hands have moved away from her shoulders and he is rubbing her back and her arms just like he did all that time ago before Ramsay’s men found them. She thinks it has become second nature for Theon to always try and make sure she is alright. She leans into him. “Yes,” she whispers. “I am always thinking about you.” His soothing movements still. He becomes stiff and doesn’t even seem to breathe. 

She puts her arms around him and hugs him and dries her face against his shirt. “I keep thinking about the night at the Godswood and how close I came to losing you. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it.” She nuzzles further into the space between his neck and his shoulder and takes a deep breath. Oh, the smell of him is so wonderful. She doesn’t think she has ever smelled anything so good. She breathes in once more, deeply. 

“I love you,” she sighs happily. His hold on her tightens shortly. Then she feels one of his hands cradling the back of her hair and the press of his chin against her forehead. “You’re cold,” his voice is kind, almost fond. “I’m glad Bran can see everything. He woke me up and told me to go get you and to bring a blanket as well. I thought he had lost his mind. Almost everyone else is fast asleep…” He looks away again but returns his gaze at her. “I won’t hold what you say tonight against you nor take it seriously because I think your thoughts are muddled from the cold but for what it’s worth, Lady Sansa, I love you too. Very much.” He smiles gently at her.

_Bran is alive_. She places a hand at his cheek. “No, I mean it,” she says in earnest. “I love you.”

For seconds they just stare into each other’s eyes. “Please,” she whispers. “Please kiss me, Theon. Please. I have wanted to kiss you for a long, long time.” 

His smile disappears. His thumb pushes a few of her stray hairs away from her cheek and he shakes his head.

“Please, Theon. Please.” He seems to hear her desperation, her need for him to do as she begs because he gently cups her face. His hands are shaking. She gives him a watery smile, and he returns it. His gaze travels from her eyes to her mouth and back again. He swallows and closes his eyes briefly.

“Will you promise me that you will not blame me tomorrow for obliging you now,” he whispers. 

“I do,” she whispers back. She has never wanted anything as much as she wants Theon’s lips on her own right now. There is a flitter of emotions running over his face, but they are all soft and tender. And then he leans in and places soft lips on hers. 

“Oh,” she gasps. She never knew that a simple meeting of lips against lips could create such a physical surge inside her. It’s the most wonderful feeling. She leans in, wanting, no needing more from him. He is hesitant at first but then he says, “Oh gods be damned, I can’t,” and then he takes her mouth properly. Runs his lips gently over hers, presses small kisses to the corner of her mouth, and lets his tongue run in a soft curve along her lower lip, gentling her lips apart and kisses her for real. 

She thinks she might die from pleasure, but she doesn’t, and she thinks she might explode from pleasure, but she doesn’t. She is here inside the Godswood being kissed by Theon Greyjoy and she is in heaven until, “Arya,” she gasps. 

He immediately lets go of her and looks wildly around. “Is she here,” he asks and sounds almost terrified. He looks like a boy being caught doing something very, very bad. “No,” she says, too afraid to find his expression even remotely amusing. “No, where is she, do you know?”

He stares at her incredulously. “She left with the rest of them yesterday,” he answers slowly. “Don’t you remember?” He looks worried again. “All of them have gone south to fight Cersei Lannister. I couldn’t go with them because of my wound.” 

Then he becomes somber. “Look, you’re clearly not yourself. You are far too cold, and I feel horrible about what just happened. Let’s get you back inside.” 

He stands up and she notices that he does so a bit stiffly, but he still manages to help her up as well. 

“I’m sorry,” she tells him as she is beginning to piece it all together. She has not ruined anything nor killed anyone by her selfish action. “I am just a bit confused. I think you’re right, it must be the cold.” He nods at that. 

“But,” and she stops, gently directing his face towards hers with a hand on his cheek. “I’m not confused about you Theon and I never will be. I do love you.” And he smiles and nods again, this time a bit shakily. “And I love you,” he replies hoarsely. 

Hand in hand, they walk out of the Godswood and into the future.


End file.
